I was alone for dinner tonight and made soup. Broccoli and potato soup. There are nights, three out of seven, where I wouldn't make broccoli soup for dinner because one of my children has a strong aversion to it. It give me pleasure to eat vegetables. To cut them up also. Even to select them from the suburban supermarket, where I would prefer not to shop but still do because it is habit, gives me satisfaction. They are glorious things, my vegetables.
I'm not a vegetarian, although I have been in the past. For more than a decade. I don't enjoy the experience of eating meat. I can't pinpoint why. Some guilt I suppose, a little sadness for the animal, the texture is confronting, as is the imagery of the blood that once flowed. Soup made with vegetables feels clean by comparison. But my lifestyle requires the power that meat can give, on occasion. I run and I dance and I exercise to a high level almost every day. Even when I should rest and my muscles are full of so much weariness, I run and dance. I've come to accept that I have a tendency to become addicted to things. Sometimes at the expense of other things which are probably more important. The experience of pushing my body is the invigorating force that right now is keeping a number of dark and pressing forces at a safe distance. In time I will write of these things. When I warm up to it.
Of warmth, a glass of port in a sweet rounded little stemmed glass sits beside me. A glass that belonged to my grandfather, apparently.